


Weapons

by Kantayra



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-28
Updated: 2005-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Betrayed, broken, and alone, Sydney finds an ally - and a cause - in a visitor she never would've expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weapons

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first serious attempt at an Alias fic, so I'm slightly nervous. It's set vaguely in the future, although the timeline is unspecific. Somewhat dark, and - yeah - there's some light nookie, although it's not the purpose of the fic.

Her world ended, and he appeared. Somehow, it seemed fitting.

Sydney didn’t react to the surprising sight of him on her doorstep. If she’d really thought about it, it made sense that he knew where she lived. The meticulous Mr. Sark would, of course, know the address of his favorite enemy. It wouldn’t even have been hard for him; after all, she was in the phonebook. She wondered, only half-interested, if he’d been disappointed that she was so easy to find. She really hadn’t been much of a challenge at all.

But here he was, death on her doorstep. She stepped aside to let him in without a word.

For his own part, he acted as though this were the most natural thing in the world. He entered her living room, removing his dark sunglasses with one hand and folding them neatly into his suit pocket.

Sydney closed the door behind him, studying the strong line of his back as he took in her home. He looked out of place in his Armani, amidst the scuffed furniture, cluttered surfaces, empty liquor bottles. Almost like he’d stepped in from an alien, perfect world into the chaotic familiarity of her home.

Only, the more she looked at him, the more _he_ seemed familiar and her home alien. Her previous life had fallen out of focus in recent months, turned dim and hazy, but he was sharp and clear to her eyes amidst the darkness. He wasn’t the only one who was out of place in her home. Not anymore.

She gestured for him to sit down, even though she couldn’t quite picture him on her puffy, over-stuffed sofa. He looked like he belonged on something hard and sleek. Swedish design. Or, perhaps, a rich antique. Finely polished wood, elaborate oriental pattern, stitched by hand with silken thread.

He sat at the very edge of the couch as if agreeing with her assessment of their surroundings. Hesitantly, she sat in the armchair across from him.

His hand reached into his inside jacket pocket, and in that moment she both wished and feared that it was a gun. Apparently, welcoming death and being truly prepared for it were two different things. But, of course, it wasn’t a gun, just as she’d known it wouldn’t be; if Sark ever _were_ to kill her, she was confident he would want to do it in battle, give her a fitting send-off. And, Christ, her thoughts had turned morbid lately. But, then, that was to be expected.

He removed an envelope from his inner pocket and held it out to her. “From your mother.”

They were the first words he’d spoken, and she realized belatedly that he was being uncharacteristically silent. Almost reverent, even. Her eyes widened for a second with hope at his words, but he merely shook his head.

“In the unfortunate event of her early demise, Irina left me with a standing order to deliver this, should the events which took place last week ever occur. She always had unwavering faith in my ability to survive.” A bittersweet smile threatened to curve his lips at that, but in the end his face retained its usual unreadable mask.

“A week?” She was surprised to find the sarcasm in her voice, surprised she still cared enough to try to rile him. “I can see why you became an assassin: You suck as a courier.”

He did give her an enigmatic smile at that and offered the letter once more.

She studied it for a moment. Just a plain white, legal-sized envelope. It seemed like a letter from Irina Derevko should look more…momentous, threatening, mysterious… _exciting_. Slowly, she reached out and took it from his hand. It was sealed. She held it between her hands, contemplating it.

“Don’t hold back on my account,” he interrupted her introspection.

She looked up at him and saw his blue eyes sparkling with laughter. With a defiant rip, she pulled the envelope open and read the paper inside:

  
 _My dearest Sydney_ , it began.

  
Sydney felt something catch in her chest, and suddenly she was praying that she wouldn’t break into tears. Not in front of Sark. Although, if the melancholy smile on his face earlier had been any indication, perhaps he missed her mother just as much, if not more. After all, he’d known her for a lifetime…

Sark abruptly rose to his feet, and Sydney started in response. “You look too thin,” he said by way of brief explanation before heading off into the kitchen. She watched him go, steps precise in the mess of her house, and couldn’t shake the strange image of the two of them, stranded in a wasteland, clinging together for survival. Then he vanished around the corner, and the spell was broken.

Which left her in private to read her mother’s last words to her. Sark, considerate and polite. The world really _was_ ending. She heard some banging in the kitchen and smiled slightly to herself. Not even the infamous Mr. Sark could close her cabinets quietly.

Her attention drifted back to the letter in her hands, and she knew she was avoiding it. Her mother’s death – before they could reconcile – would always weigh heavily on her shoulders. With a deep breath, she read on. She’d always been brave…

  
 _I had the highest hopes that this letter would never have to reach you. However, given the greed and power in this game of ours, that was a slim possibility. Your father had faith in your government, a faith I have long since abandoned. Hard as this may be for you to believe, I believed in something once, too, in the absolute right of the cause I fought for. Your father and I both believed our sacrifices to be necessary, even if they were for opposite sides of the war. It took losing you, Sydney, to make me realize that some sacrifices are never worth it._

 _You have called me a traitor, but who really betrayed whom? The government I trusted, believed in, took everything that was dear to me. And now, if you’ve received this letter, your government has done the same. You see, Sydney, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all just pawns to them. The indifferent organizations we fight for use us up and toss us away once we have nothing more to give._

 _You think me a traitor, but I freed myself from them, from the blindness of those mad for power. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I said my own organization was different – and, to a certain degree, you would be correct – but it was different for me, and for those I care about. It would have been different for you, too._

 _You and I are alike in this. We’re both greater than those who would master us. I know Jack would disagree with me. He would argue that fighting for a greater cause ensures that we stay on course. I sincerely hope that belief is not what got him killed, but if you’re reading this, you know by now that the CIA was no better than the rest of us…_

  
Sydney’s face went white, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Her hands shook around the letter, and it was all she could do to fight back tears from the wells of her eyes.

Irina’s hope had been in vain, of course. Jack Bristow, found dead in his home only a month before. Only a week after he’d confessed to Sydney that he was getting old and pulling out, gathering information that would guarantee that he could leave the game and stay out.

The official reports had said a heart attack. She’d had Marshall hack into the CIA files just in case, though. Her father’s paranoia had finally worn off on her. And a good thing, too. Because there, right in Director Carver’s top-level report was the mandate:

  
 _Status: Agent Jack Bristow. Aging, shows early signs of loss of mental faculties, has detailed and highly classified information on numerous sensitive operations as well as high-ranking CIA officers, is unlikely to hold up to physical and mental interrogation concerning operations._

 _Committee determination: Remove potential intelligence threat._

  
Her father’s great crime: Serving his nation loyally all his life and then wanting to retire in peace. Oh, the CIA had whitewashed it nicely. They’d hidden the fears of those at the top under the banner of national security. By those reports, her father had sounded like both a traitor and a madman at the end of it. All very neat and slickly done. Professional.

Sark returned to the living room at that moment, and she started. He didn’t comment, however, merely set down a plate before her. Eggs, sunny-side up. Her favorite.

“How did you…?” she began curiously, the minor mystery distracting her from the numb pain of the previous month.

“Your mother’s favorite,” he offered smoothly. “I’m afraid the options your kitchen afforded me were quite limited.”

She didn’t care, though, and dug into the food ravenously. For some reason, this whole encounter had awoken something within her. A desire to fight again. Maybe it was Sark’s shockingly _real_ presence and the knowledge that came with it that she wasn’t the only person in the world who had survived, not any longer. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that her mother had gone through a similar pain, the loss of lover, family, faith. Or maybe even, if only in a letter, that someone was finally telling her something that _made sense_. It was such a relief to know that her recent thoughts weren’t a sign of a descent into madness.

She offered Sark a smile that surprised even her with its genuine affection, before turning back to the letter. She knew he studied her, seemingly with infinite patience, hands folded before him and a smirk on his lips.

  
 _You can be free of them_ , her mother’s words implored her. _For all their machinations, they are but mediocre men, playing at a game they cannot fully comprehend. You are great – your father and I have both seen to it – and they have always wanted to harvest your greatness for their own ends. But it is in your power to fight them, defeat them, render them unto utter desolation…_

  
A shiver traveled down Sydney’s spine at those words. Rambaldi, paraphrased. They’d wanted to interrogate her, run tests on her. The CIA, with all their supposed ‘goodness’, had wanted nothing more than what the enemy wanted. How many times, in fact, had the CIA and the ‘enemy’ sought the same prize? And, if they all sought the same thing, what made any of them better than any of the others?

“Agent Bristow, are you feeling unwell?” Sark’s silky British accent cut through the thick fog of her innermost fears. “You look rather pale.”

She looked up at him then, looked straight into those cold, calculating, blue eyes. “Not ‘Agent’ Bristow,” she corrected him. “Not anymore.”

“Ms. Bristow,” he conceded. “Yes, I had heard of your recent loss of employment. Not that I believed it, of course. You’ll understand that it was difficult to give credence to rumors of the patriotic Agent Bristow abandoning her country in its hour of need.” He paused strategically. “Even considering Agent Vaughn’s untimely demise. And may I offer my sympathy at your fiancé’s death…this is the second time, is it not?” He fixed her with an innocent stare, or as innocent as Sark could look, at any rate.

She smiled slowly, a slightly wicked smile, one that she knew her mother would’ve appreciated. “You want to provoke me?” she inquired disinterestedly, finishing her eggs and showing that he hadn’t fazed her in the least.

He shrugged. “I had heard that you were broken, in mourning. I simply couldn’t resist the temptation to find out for myself.” He glanced down at the letter on the table as Sydney hastily read and reread the final paragraphs, committing them to memory. “My delivery was worthwhile, I trust. This wasn’t a particularly convenient time for me to return to Los Angeles.”

“So sorry to have _inconvenienced_ you,” she retorted coldly, still pondering her mother’s final words to her.

He rose from the couch, still looking horribly out of place in this fallen facsimile of the ‘perfect’ American life. “If you have no further need of me, then.” He motioned to leave.

“It was all a test,” she said softly, just loudly enough to halt him in his tracks.

“Agent Vaughn’s death? I suppose so.”

She rose as well, so that she was standing less than a foot from him, looking up into his eyes. She’d never noticed how tall he was before. “They made me choose: him or them. They lied to me about the stakes. They knew he wouldn’t survive that mission alone.”

“Of course not. He was a rather mediocre agent.”

His words were an odd echo of her mother’s: _…mediocre men…always wanted to harvest your greatness…_

“I loved him,” she managed to force a hint of anger into her voice.

He tilted his head. “That doesn’t change the fact that he could never keep up with you, not unless you held yourself back on his account.” There was emotion in his voice, although it was hidden well. Anger, she thought, rage at the very thought that someone would – or could – hold her back.

“They wanted to prove my loyalty,” she countered. “Prove that it was my superiors and not my friends that I served. But they let it go one step too far.”

“A foolish attempt,” he stated simply.

She smiled. “They didn’t think that, with no ties left, I’d finally be free.”

And she realized then that all those years she’d been wrong. She’d hated him, pitied him for his lack of allegiance, lack of attachment. But all along, he’d been free and _she_ had been the one in shackles to a moralistic system that was nothing more than an elaborate deception. So much hatred built off of that one lie. So now that she knew the truth…

  
 _Know now that I don’t lie to you_ , her mother’s letter had read at the end. _I no longer can benefit from your allegiance. I ask you to escape for your own sake. Don’t let them destroy you any further. The fight within you is as strong as it ever was in me, and that passion was something Jack could never understand. He feared it as much as his superiors, tried to rein it in when he thought you too like me…_

  
“What will you do now?” Sark asked, sounding genuinely curious.

His throat moved in an intriguing way when he spoke. She’d never taken the time to notice it, to watch his Adam’s apple bob. Slowly but surprisingly confidently, she reached out with one hand.

He almost flinched back at first – an instinctive reaction – but he stood his ground as her fingertip traced a slow trail down the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, down to where that perfect flesh vanished beneath the knot of his necktie. He closed his eyes at her gentle touch, leaving himself vulnerable before her, and a twinge of power she’d only felt on missions ran through her blood.

  
 _All I can offer you in your journey ahead is the greatest weapon at my disposal. If you’ve received this, I am no longer alive to deliver these words myself and thus have no further need for my greatest work. The weapon I offer you takes strength and skill to operate, but I don’t doubt for a minute that you have the power to wield it properly…_

  
In that moment, Sydney believed. She watched the unflappable Mr. Sark shiver as she slowly pulled on the knot of his tie, and she knew. Before, her power had always been a disguise. Her aliases had been strong and sensual, but Sydney Bristow herself had always been obedient, tame, restrained.

No more. The barriers between all the women she had been – could be – were breaking down within her, and she’d never felt this complete. This _powerful_.

Slowly, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss in the hollow of Sark’s throat. Decision made. She pulled back just an inch to breathe in his scent, and watched him gulp.

“Cat got your tongue?” She couldn’t help but tease him, and suddenly their taunts and jabs felt _charged_ with a sensual energy she’d never let herself fully realize before.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find your actions…surprising, to say the least,” he retorted carefully.

Her fingers ran slowly down the length of his tie as she pulled the garment off. She realized he probably thought her unstable; she wasn’t entirely sure he was wrong. “I can’t blame you, I suppose.” Her hands slipped under his jacket and stroked back up his chest to his shoulders, feeling the taut musculature beneath, pushing his jacket off of him and onto the couch behind him, before tangling her fingers in the soft curls at the back of the neck. “I’ve changed since we last met.”

“I can see that.” His eyes were a dark, clear blue, alight with arousal.

She pressed her body close to his and felt another sign of his arousal against her belly. It only figured that unhinged women would turn him on. “We haven’t had a chance to get to know each other for years now.”

His hands moved to rest on her hips, holding her against him. “Have we ever really known each other?” he retorted.

“Touché,” she conceded. And pulled his head down to her for a tentative meeting of lips.

She was surprised at how warm he was. For all the ice in his gaze, the merest graze of his lips lit her body aflame. He was soft in a way she wouldn’t have imagined, as well. At first his response was so slight that she thought he wasn’t kissing her back. But then he tilted the angle of his head to afford her easier access, and he opened his mouth at her tongue’s insistence.

She invaded him, marveling that he would be this passive with her, this yielding. But, then, it was all foretold…

  
 _The thing your government and all the other players forget is that the best weapon isn’t a fancy device slapped together by a team of research scientists or some miraculous artifact from the past. A true weapon is forged throughout a lifetime of experience, under the master craftsman’s skillful care, created with love and sweat. The perfect weapon is created for one wielder, and one alone. The perfect fit for the right swordsman. It is a thing of beauty, of laborious time and effort, but worth every minute that was put into it…_

  
Sark was far from passive now. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her right leg around his waist, grinding his excitement against her, letting her feel every inch. His tongue wrapped around hers, skillfully and ingeniously, and she should’ve known that words weren’t the only thing that tongue could twine about like fine silk.

Impulsively, she leapt up, wrapped her legs around him, her arms over his shoulders. He staggered at the force of her sudden passion, and she used his moment of unsteadiness to rain kisses up and down his jaw.

“Another man might be concerned that you’re only doing this because you have nothing left to lose,” he commented, and he tried to maintain his usual dry, disinterested tone, but his voice was deep and dark and husky.

“I’d tell that man that I prefer to think of it as if I have everything to gain,” she riposted. It seemed they couldn’t stop their little battle of words, even as their bodies moved in harmony.

“Have I ever complimented you on your efficiently optimistic worldview?” he shot right back. His lips were at her throat now, buried in the soft hollow there, caressing nerve endings that made her entire body shake with pleasure.

She fought to bite back a moan. “Probably,” she agreed, and she was impressed with how steady her voice sounded. “But I don’t really pay attention to most of the garbage that comes out of your mouth.” She thought she saw a flash of supreme annoyance in those shocking blue eyes, but she undulated her hips slowly against his, and he conceded the battle, moaning into her shoulder. This was, after all, a battle that woman was designed to win.

“Bedroom?” he asked roughly, fingers sliding up under her blouse and searing the skin beneath with his fiery touch.

“Here.” She rocked against him, trying to unbalance him enough that he’d drop them both onto the couch.

And his knees did buckle for a moment, but he didn’t fall. “Bedroom,” he demanded again, glancing disdainfully at the couch.

“Snob,” she teased lightly, nibbling at his earlobe. He gave her that amused little smile of his, as if she were simply the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen. “To your right.”

It wasn’t so bad that he kept fighting her, really. It made him exciting, a constant challenge in her arms, and she challenged him back the entire walk to the bedroom. Hips rolling suggestively against his, fingers plucking at each button of his shirt, undressing him, fevered lips tasting every millimeter of exposed flesh she could find… Anything, really, to make him give up this foolish quest for the bed and take her right there on the hard linoleum.

Like the worthy opponent he was, he didn’t surrender until she tackled him onto the bed. He lay beneath her, his body outlined in sharp relief on her plain, white-cotton sheets, and her breath caught her throat at his beauty: tousled dark blond curls, deliciously crooked lower lip, icy blue eyes lit with feverish flame. Her fingers unfastened the last two buttons of his shirt, only for her to groan in frustration when she saw the undershirt beneath.

 _Who on earth still wears an undershirt?_ But, even as she thought it, the answer was obvious: _Someone whose suit is worth more than my entire wardrobe…_ And, for some reason, that insight suddenly made the whole situation so much more _real_. This was _Sark_ beneath her.

Sark, half-sitting up to throw off his undershirt to show her his pale, lean body.

Sark, for whom she was peeling off her own blouse, unfastening her bra, baring herself.

Sark, whose damn zipper just didn’t seem to want to come undone…until it did, and his pants and boxers were gone, and he was incredible…

Sark, whose body her lips and fingertips explored ravenously, as if she’d been starving for his touch for years and hadn’t even realized it.

Sark, from whose throat a sound halfway between a whimper and a hum emerged when she wrapped her fingers around his erection – long and lean, just like the rest of him.

Sark, whose body covered hers now, wiping all images from her mind – her father’s dead eyes, the bullet-hole in Vaughn’s forehead, her mother’s funeral – until there was nothing left but him.

Sark, above her, inside her, filling her, moving with her…

Sark.

Sark…

“ _Sark_!”

  
 _He is my greatest accomplishment, Sydney. I trained him, raised him, even loved him. Crafted him perfectly to survive in this world, taught him so that he could not possibly help but seek you out. He is powerful – great, as you are – and just as lost. He will be as loyal to you as he once was to me, if you only give him the chance. He is skilled, resourceful, knowledgeable, intelligent, clever, and – unless our opinions on such matters differ greatly – not unpleasant on the eyes. He is everything you will need should you choose the path I’ve suggested._

 _He was my ultimate weapon, and I offer him to you in your hour of need. Lead him, as I did, and he will in turn guide you along the path to victory…_

  
Sark shuddered when he came, burying his face in her shoulder as his body shook. From Sydney’s angle, it looked almost as though he were weeping, and her fingers slowly stroked his back, her mind still reeling at all that had happened…and what they had just done…

Finally, he stirred enough to slip out of her and off of her, although he stayed close, spooned up behind her as if desperate to prolong their physical contact as long as possible. ‘Desperate’ wasn’t a word she associated with Sark, and she caught the hand caressing her bare arm and pulled it around her body, wrapping herself in him. His lips continued to nip at her throat.

“Not bad,” she teased. She could feel his irritation as a breath against her neck and smiled to herself.

“‘Not bad’?” he repeated skeptically, the arm around her waist dipping lower to slip a finger against her swollen clit.

She hissed. It was too soon, too much pleasure for her hypersensitive body, and she guided his hand back up to her waist. “Incredible,” she amended.

He was smiling against her shoulder now – undoubtedly that cocky, lop-sided smirk of his – and murmured his agreement. “Exquisite.”

Sydney closed her eyes and leaned back against his body. He was soft and relaxed now. Contented. It seemed that today was the day for demolishing her preconceived notions of this man. Never in a million years would she have imagined him as gentle as he was now. Almost tender. If she’d ever given it any thought, she supposed she would’ve seen him as the type to kill after mating. Although that _was_ a unique characteristic to the female of the species, wasn’t it? The black widow…

“My mother talked about you in her letter, you know,” she commented lazily, hazy pleasure seeping through her body and making her drowsy.

“I can only gather that her comments were favorable,” he murmured into her hair. He was teasing her, of course, although his inflection was as enigmatic as ever.

She wondered if, over time, she’d come to know his moods, learn to read him so well that even his impassive countenance would hold no mysteries for her. She could see that forming between them. Their partnership wouldn’t be about love, not with the man he was and the woman the CIA had inadvertently turned her into. But she could see it forming – and lasting – around mutual understanding and respect. Plays and counterplays. It seemed like a mission worthy of her skills.

“She called you a weapon.”

He chuckled against her, his laughter almost silent, but she could feel from the motions of his chest that it was rich and deep. And she guessed at that moment that this had been some sort of in-joke between her mother and Sark, something that she had now inherited.

“That sounds like Irina,” was his only response, however.

“She suggested that she molded you – programmed you – to work for me.” Her tone was harsh, and she didn’t know why. Although maybe it was because she couldn’t imagine him not being outraged by the way her mother had spoken of him.

“I told you once we were destined to work together,” he said instead, almost chastising her.

She turned to look at him, her fingers lingering on his cheek. “It’s pretty basic psychology, really,” she contemplated softly. “Men tend to seek out women who remind them of their mother-figures. And the same works in reverse.”

“I remind you of your father, then?” He seemed terribly amused by the idea.

“With the paranoid, contorted conniving? And the frosty exterior and inner warmth? Nope, not in the slightest,” she retorted sarcastically.

He leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips, an almost innocent kiss full of promise and potential. She turned away from him again when he pulled away, letting his body warm her back as sleep began to slowly overtake her. “I’m going to destroy it all,” she informed him.

“Mmm?” he replied, obviously on the verge of sleep himself.

“Rambaldi,” she clarified. “I’m going to track down every artifact – every manuscript – that bastard ever made, and I’m going to watch them burn.”

“And here I would’ve thought you’d want revenge on Agent Vaughn’s murderers…”

It almost hurt to talk of Vaughn like this, like he was just another distant figure in the equation. But that was what he was now, and the Sydney Bristow who had loved him – and who would never, ever have taken Sark to bed – had died when he had. She was more now, and less…

“Why do you think the CIA was so desperate to ensure my loyalty?” she retorted.

“They fear Rambaldi’s prophecy.”

“Rambaldi killed Vaughn,” she concluded. “Rambaldi destroyed my life.”

“And Sloane?”

“Rambaldi created Sloane.”

“You’re rather…single-minded about this,” he commented, sounding a bit wary, of all things.

“Rambaldi warned about what would happen once my rage had risen.” She tightened her grip on the sheet before her. “He should’ve listened to his own damn advice.” She could feel him smile at that. “Now, are you in or are you out? Because I am _deadly_ serious about this.”

He sighed. “You do realize what you’d be up against? You would have to break into the most secure government facilities in the world – including the CIA’s – infiltrate dozens of terrorist organizations, undertake hundreds of missions, make thousands of enemies…”

“The water too hot?” she taunted him.

“No,” and she could hear the laughter in his voice, “I was just reflecting upon how very much fun this will be.”

And she smiled. “Tomorrow, we make them burn.” She shut her eyes.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed.

  
 _Know always that I love you_ , her mother’s last words seemed to echo in her ears. _I love you both. My children, my legacy, my weapons._

  
Tomorrow, she’d show them all just how deadly a weapon she could be.


End file.
